


Keepsake

by Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me



Series: Destiel/ Cockles Shorts [21]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, Discovery, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, Kissing, M/M, Near Future, POV Misha, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Shy Jensen Ackles, Silly Jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me/pseuds/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Jared's pranks leads Misha to discover something that Jensen has been hiding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keepsake

* * *

* * *

 

              His keys are missing again.

_Fucking, Jared!_

              Misha storms down the way to the moose’s trailer, quickly climbing up the few steps and jiggling the door handle. _Locked._ He pounds on the aluminum … _no answer_. “Jared! Where the fuck are my keys?” _Still_ no answer. “C’mon, man! I need to get into my trailer—I gotta piss!”

               His only reply is more silence.

              “I’m just going to piss on your steps if you don’t give me back my keys!” he yelps a moment later, growling when all remains quiet in spite of his threat. _Maybe he’s actually not in there._ “Fuck!” Misha jumps back off the stairs, pacing around afterwards with his hands on his hips. There are some port-a-potties around the other side of the warehouse, but those things are always nasty—and Misha feels like he needs to shower just from _walking_ _by_ them—and since he can’t get into his trailer, he won’t really be able to do that either.

_Fucking, fucker, Jared!_

              Jensen wouldn’t do this kind of shit … _other shit_ maybe, but not _this_ kind of shit. He knows better than to mess with a man’s ability to relieve himself … not that Jared hid his keys for specifically _that_ reason; but whatever fallout ensued, the 500 foot behemoth is sure to be pleased with himself.

_Asshole._

              But that thought, and Misha’s screaming bladder gives him an idea … Jensen’s trailer is usually open during the day. It’s mid-week of a shoot, and he’s in and out of it so much, it’s just too big of a hassle to keep locking and unlocking it with each time he goes back and forth. Plus, he trusts everyone on set … and Jared doesn’t fuck with _Jensen’s stuff._

_Fucking fuck, that fucker!_

              Although still angry, Misha feels a little better now, knowing that he won’t have to delve into a cesspool just to take care of some business. He hightails it around to the next trailer, grinning like a mad man when the door swings open with the lightest pull of his fingers.

              “Jen?” he calls out, looking around and walking in slowly. Jensen may play a big ol’ tough guy, but he tends to startle easily when he’s someplace he feels comfortable. “I just need to use your bathroom … the _fuck-head_ took my keys again.” No one responds, but the immaculate trailer shimmers and winks at him with all its shiny surfaces. Misha shrugs, thinking that it may even be better that Jensen isn’t here—he needs to piss _really_ bad, and he can’t risk getting caught up in conversation before he does so. With his path clear and a toilet in sight, Misha jets the rest of the way inside, pleased as punch that relief is near. 

***

               There really is no better feeling than _empty_ after just taking a leak. Misha could just sit down for a while and dwell in the sensation … and probably would if he didn’t have to be back on set in ten minutes. Either way though, his blistering anger and maddening pressure have both seemed to drain away—which is probably good too, since he has to do a scene where Cas and Sam are working together; and it’s hard to be in that mindset when all you want to do is kick your coworker in the nads.

               With a sigh and a soft smile, Misha makes his way back to the door of the trailer; thanking God he still has _one_ semi-sensible friend around here. He almost makes it out when something on the counter catches his eye. A pile of change and an old receipt cover up half of it, but the bright green and orange lower-half are plain as day, and Misha recognizes it _immediately_. He takes a sidestep towards the ledge where it lays and gingerly picks up the tiny wooden thing, turning it round in his fingers and looking it over.  “Where did _you_ come from?” he asks it, squinting his eyes as if actually waiting for a response, but the brightly painted little fish doesn’t say a word, it only rests between his thumb and index, as if he had just plucked it from a pond.

               He remembers when he made it—it was maybe two years ago, when he was making that side table for the living room. He always liked to repurpose his scrap pieces after a project—either putting them into new creations, or carving silly little figures for West. The boy didn’t ever pay the tiny bears and cats and alligators too much mind; but when Maison came along and got old enough to play with such things, _she really enjoyed them_. Soon, Misha was getting requests—

              “Daddy, make me a giraffe” … “Daddy, can you carve a chinchilla?”

              The majority of her figurines look rather blobby and appeared only close to the real thing if he squinted; but his sweet little girl was excited either way, so—he kept making them … _still does_ , and she keeps accepting each new creation with innocent jubilee. It makes his world brighten just to see her smile.

              Misha looks back to the tiny wooden carving, hearing his daughter’s voice in his head once more—remembering how she asked for a _whole school of fish_ (she wanted to teach them how to read “Sam I Am”—she insisted it was _very_ important). He made about fifty seven of the damn things, and his fingers felt raw afterwards … but Maison was so excited by each and every one, that his stinging skin was totally worth it. But how did one of them make it _here_? How did it end up in Canada … in Jensen’s trailer of all places? It didn’t make any sense; and Misha’s curiosity and wild imagination were now taking the place of his once filled bladder as the maddening thing currently absorbing his thoughts.

              He needed to get to the bottom of this.

              Within a few seconds, he’s out the door and speeding towards the stages—hoping he’ll find Jensen there so he can ask him about the fish. He should be going over his lines for the next scene and maybe, even running them with Jared … but “should be” has never been an actual priority as far as Misha is concerned.  

              Once inside the large shipping door, he begins looking around—asking various members of the crew if they have seen his elusive friend; but each one says they haven’t seen him, or that they thought he went back to his trailer—which obviously, wasn’t helpful at all. Misha sighs and then turns around to head to the main stage, thinking that maybe he’ll find the guy there. But, upon arrival … all he finds is a moose—sitting quietly against a wall and looking _all too_ innocent.

              “Have you seen Jen?” Misha asks, deciding to swallow back the sudden urge to kick the man as he sits on the ground. He’ll get his keys—and _him_ back later.

              Jared looks up and shakes his head—toothpick poised between his lips. “I thought he was catching some Z’s in his trailer, so I wasn’t gonna bother him. You probably already looked there though, _huh_?”

              Misha nods, still clutching the tiny fish in his palm. “Yeah, had to use _his_ toilet … _someone_ locked me outta mine.”

              Jared grins around the white plastic pick—and Misha can practically _see_ his horns start to grow through his shaggy hair. “ _Oh_ … that’s a shame. You should probably get a spare set.”

              “That _was_ my spare set.”

              Jared only giggles and buries his face back into his pages.

              Misha bends down and swats them out of his hands.

              “Dude!” he laughs, finally pushing back up onto his feet. “What was that for?”

              “Any number of things.”

              Jared rolls his eyes – fishing into his pocket a moment later and pulling out Misha’s keys. “Jeez … didn’t think you’d get so pissy about it.”

              “This is like the fourth set you’ve taken!”

              “At least I kept them this time! I was thinking about dumping them in one of the food truck’s trash compactors, but—that’d probably bust ‘em. Didn’t want to fuck with their business …”

              “But it’s totally fine to fuck with _my business_?” Misha hisses, even more annoyed that he has to stare up at Jared now that he’s standing.

              The tall man only shrugs and runs a carefree hand through his hair, using the other to toss Misha’s keys back to him.

              Misha catches them and stuffs them angrily into his own pocket, almost forgetting about the fish still in his hand—he nearly drops it with the effort.

              The two stand in silence for a minute—Jared, _still smiling_ and seemingly content with his joke, and Misha … angry that all his anger is fading so quickly. _It’s impossible to stay mad at this idiot._ With a sigh and a defeated grunt, Misha is the first to break in with words.

              “So, no idea where he could be?”

              “Maybe in wardrobe? I think they are fitting that prosthetic today. That can always take some time.”

              Misha nods—completely forgetting _why_ his character and Jared’s were teaming up for this scene. Dean has been taken by some monster and is now morphing into one of the beasts himself—which involves some heavy duty make-up that will probably take a good few hours to apply. _Poor guy._

              “Why are ya looking for him?”

              Misha snaps out of his empathy to stare into curious eyes. “Oh, just wanted to ask him about something I found in his trailer.”

 _Jared’s eyes_ light up—curiosity melting away as a devilish glee overtakes them. “What did you find? Is it dirty?”

              “What? No!” Misha laughs, quickly holding up the little fish—laughing harder as Jared’s shoulders slump.

              “Oh … what’s that?”

              “Obviously not what you were hoping for …”

              Jared smiles once more and shrugs. “I wanted something to hang over his head.”

              “Just hold literally _anything_ at shoulder height.”

              He and Jared both crack up at _that_ _one_ , wiping at their eyes and stepping away from the stage once getting shushed by some of the crew doing a sound check.

              “No, but really … what is that?”

              Misha chuckles some more before nodding and handing the thing over to Jared.  

              But the small “ _Oh_ ” that follows makes him stop laughing altogether.

              “What?” Misha asks, because the tone of that _oh_ was all too familiar and understanding.

              “It’s just his fish” Jared says with a twitch of his cheek—handing the wooden figurine back to Misha, as if that was all the explanation he needed.

              “ _His_ fish?”

              Jared gives him a curious look. “Yeah … it’s his good luck charm or somethin’.”

              “Good luck charm?”

              “ _Yeah_ … why are you repeating everything I say?”

              Misha looks back down at the brightly painted thing—inspecting it closer, noticing now how the edges are warn down slightly, and the paint has been rubbed off a bit at the tail. “So … he keeps this with him?”

              “Yeah, man. I’m actually surprised he left it in his trailer.”

              Misha peers back up at his tall friend, feeling his face heat a little—and he’s not even sure why.

              “Why? What’s it to you?”

              “I made it” Misha whispers—blushing even more.

              “For Jensen? Then why are you asking me what it is?” Jared  asks, clapping Misha on the shoulder and shaking him like he’s nuts.

              Misha pulls away and wobbles his head—still looking serious enough, it quiets Jared down.  “No, I made it for _Maison_ a couple years ago. She has a bunch of ‘em.”

              “ _Oh_ …” Jared hums, seeming like he’s beginning to understand his friend’s confusion. “So … how did Jensen end up with it?”

              “That’s why I wanted to talk to him. The last time I saw one of these, it was in a bucket in the playroom. I don’t know how the hell it got _here_.”

              “Do you think the kids put it in your bag at some point? Aren’t they always sticking shit in your bag?”

              Misha nods again—that could _very well_ be how the thing traveled across the border. He’s always having to shake out his duffle bag to free it from the toys and books and _God knows what else,_ that are making it push past the airline’s carryon weight limit. But—a tiny fish like this wouldn’t even add an ounce. It could have easily gone undetected. That probably explains how it made it this far north; but it still doesn’t answer the question of how it ended up in Jensen’s possession … and why the hell he has deemed it his ”lucky charm.”

              “I wonder how Jensen got it” Jared says, mimicking Misha’s thoughts.

              “I know … and you said, he carries it around?”

              “Yeah … usually in his right pocket. Whenever he gets all worked up over something—or worked up for a scene, he sticks his hand in his coat pocket and rubs the side. I only know that because I asked him about it a while ago when we were filming the season 10 finale. He kept fiddling with something between takes and I got curious.” Jared smiles with the memory. “He was all shy about it too … like it was something to be embarrassed about.”

              Misha gawks. “I’ve never seen him do that.”

              “ _Really_? He does it all the time. Whenever we’re filming, he’s got that little fish in his hand.”

              “I seriously have _never_ noticed” Misha says in earnest.

              Jared scratches his head. “That’s weird. Maybe I just see it because I have a bird’s eye view of everything.”

              Misha rolls his eyes and thwacks Jared in the stomach. “You’re not _that_ tall.”

              “Yeah, but you’re _that_ short.”

              The two laugh some more only to be cut off by a PA calling them over to the stage. Misha pats Jared on the back as they turn around— pocketing the fish and running his lines over quickly in his head, trying to center his mind back on work. Hopefully, if he focuses … he won’t dwell _too much_ on all the nagging questions he still has.

***

              “Mish?”

               Misha practically leaps out of his chair—not because he’s startled, but because he’s just _that_ excited to hear Jensen’s voice. “Come in!” he shouts back—his own voice almost cracking.

               Jensen climbs the rest of the way inside Misha’s trailer, giving him a warm, loving smile as soon as their eyes meet. “Couple of the guys said you were lookin’ for me?”

               Misha nods enthusiastically. “Yeah—were you in wardrobe?”

               Jensen shoves his hands in his jeans pockets as he saunters over—and the movement draws Misha’s eyes directly to the man’s wrists disappearing into denim. “ _Yep_. That shit took _forever_ , but the molds are finally done. Now I just have to wait so I can do it all over again tomorrow when they actually _apply_ it.”

               Misha leans forward and gives Jensen a hug once they’re toe to toe, and Jensen pulls his hands free and returns the embrace emphatically.

               “ _So_ … why did you want to see me?” Jensen finally asks once they pull away.

               “Well …” Misha begins, digging in his own pocket—quickly pulling out the little fish. “I just wanted to know … how you came about _this_?” He holds up the figurine to Jensen’s eye level—and watches as his friend’s face reddens at the sight of the green and orange piece of wood.

               “ _Oh_ …”

               “Yeah …”

               “Well …” Jensen looks away and rubs the back of his neck. “ _Umm_ …”

               Misha smiles and lifts his hand to touch Jensen’s chin and pull the man’s eyes back to him. “Jared says it’s your _lucky charm_.”

               Jensen only blushes more.

               “He says you keep it in your pocket and rub it whenever you’re stressed out.”

               Jensen’s face is now burning against Misha’s thumb—so he slides his cool palm against his friend’s cheek to tame the heat.

               “Jen?”

               Jensen closes his eyes and leans into Misha’s touch, stepping closer until they’re almost brushing noses.

               “I sorta _stole_ it from your bag.”

               Misha laughs as his eyebrows raise with question. “You _stole it?_ Mr. Follow-the-Rules-Ackles … _stole_ something?”

               Jensen laughs with him, but keeps his eyes closed. “Remember when you let me borrow you bag that time I had to fly back to LA?”

               Misha thinks a moment—a vague memory gracing the edge of his mind. “ _Kinda_.”

               “I had only brought my big suitcase because we were going to be here for a few weeks straight … I wasn’t expecting to have to go anywhere else; but they called me in for a meeting. You let me take yours so I wouldn’t have to check anything at the airport.”

               Misha shrugs, honestly not remembering this, but it sounds like something he would do.

               Jensen sighs and opens his eyes, leaning his forehead against Misha’s and making the sight of him blur into itself. “Well, _you did_ … and while I was unpacking when I got back, I found the fish. I thought about giving it back to you, _but_ …”

               Misha tilts his head away so he can better read Jensen’s face. “But _what_?”

               Jensen is blushing again and still refusing to look him in the eye. “But … you obviously _made it_. And … I _liked_ it … and … it reminded me of you.”

               The warmth that fills him up is apparently alluring, because soon, Jensen is wrapping his arms around Misha’s waist. “So, you stole my daughter’s wooden fish because it _reminded_ you of me?”

               The man’s arms drop. “Shit? It was Maison’s? _Fuck!_ I’m sorry! Was she looking for it or something? I didn’t mean to—”

               Misha shuts him up with a quick kiss, chuckling softly against his friend’s lips. “She has a crap ton of them … she didn’t even notice one was gone.” The man visibly shrinks in his arms, and melts against Misha’s chest once more.

               “ _Good_ … I would feel like such an ass.”  
               “Well … you still _stole it_ , so …”

               Jensen laughs and let’s his head drop to Misha’s shoulder, burrowing his nose into his the scruff at the edge of the other man’s jaw. “Like I said … _it reminded me of you._ ”

               Misha squeezes him tight, breathing him in and letting the sweetness of all this sink down into his bones—the dust at last settling to reveal the final few questions still left on the brim of his tongue. “Jared also said you mess with it all the time … but _I_ never noticed you doing anything.”

               Jensen shifts slightly in his hold, clutching him tighter as if he might get ripped away any second.

              Misha massages the man’s tensed muscles through his t-shirt, wanting him to be certain— _no one will ever pull them apart._

              “I don’t really need a reminder …” Jensen whispers, settling a warm kiss against the thrumming skin of Misha’s neck. “If I got the _real thing_ right in front of me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Find me on Tumblr at [Castiel-Left-His-Mark-On-Me](http://castiel-left-his-mark-on-me.tumblr.com)
> 
> For more Cockles and Destiel fluff, smut and overall feel, check out the rest of my Ao3!


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